


Father a Saint

by Ludwiggle73



Series: The Sad Dad Collection [2]
Category: Hetalia: Axis Powers
Genre: Alternate Universe - Human, Angst with a Happy Ending, Bad Parenting, Family Fluff, Father-Son Relationship, Fatherhood, Gen
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2018-01-20
Updated: 2018-01-20
Packaged: 2019-03-07 02:20:32
Rating: General Audiences
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 3,062
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/13424664
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/Ludwiggle73/pseuds/Ludwiggle73
Summary: Antonio and Lovino go to the park as enemies and leave as father and son—with a bit of help from a British dad on holiday.





	Father a Saint

“The father a saint, the son a sinner.”

_—Spanish proverb_

 

* * *

 

 

A summer afternoon in southern Italy. Antonio Fernández Carriedo slouches on a sun-warmed bench, elbow on the armrest and chin on his hand, drowsily watching his son swing across bright red monkey bars. A child should be happy to play like this, but Lovino’s face is twisted into its perpetual scowl. He had a tantrum when Antonio dared to wake him up this morning, then another when they didn’t have enough milk for breakfast, and a third when Antonio asked him to clean his room. It amazes him that such a young, small body can hold so much hatred. On more than one occasion, Antonio has been compared to the sun. (His most shining review said, _Though his lyrics about love often tell us stories we’ve heard before, Toni Carriedo is easy to admire—if not for his gorgeous appearance or undeniable talent, then for having enough charisma to light up a stadium of thousands, as he did on his latest tour._ ) Unfortunately, Lovino seems to have inherited fire and ferocity, but none of the brightness and charm.

The sound of a rental car door closing has Antonio lifting his head. Behind him, he hears a clear, authoritative voice say, “Alfred, help Matthew get unbuckled, please. Peter, I told you to put your shoes back on. Left, right, there we are. Down we go. Hop out, Matthew. Come along, then.”

Antonio turns to watch a blond man lead three boys into the park. The tallest boy walks a few steps ahead, while the other two hold their father’s hands; none are older than Lovino, but all are happier than him. The Englishman herds his trio to the empty bench near Antonio, setting his shoulder bag down on it and withdrawing a bottle of sunscreen. Without prompt, the boys offer cupped hands, and their father gives them each a generous dollop of cream. Antonio watches in amazement as the father assists the youngest boy and, without needing to look, says, “Your legs, as well, Alfred,” causing the boy to huff but obey without further protest. When all three have been inspected, the father caps the bottle and says, “Off you go. Make merriment.” They scamper off to the little playground, and only when they’ve begun to climb and slide does their father sit down.

Antonio watches Lovino. He’s sitting on top of the monkey bars, observing the newcomers with mistrust smoldering in his eyes. _What kid looks like that? You would think he grew up in wartimes, or got abducted or something._ He wishes he could tell Lovino that there are worse fates than living under his roof, but that would be pointless. The boy has no concept of those hypothetical dooms. Antonio barely does, himself.

He looks back to the other father, sorting through the contents of his bag. He wears a broad-brimmed fedora, but Antonio can see the makings of a sunburn where his shirt collar bares the back of his neck.

Antonio clears his throat, but receives no response, so he says, “Señor.”

Now the man looks up, first to the children, then to Antonio. His thick eyebrows lift in polite inquisition. He doesn’t recognize the face of Toni Carriedo, but since he’s not a preteen girl and eight years of stress have taken their toll on Antonio’s face, that’s not wholly surprising.

Antonio has never been very shy, but this sort of person—the ones who mind their own business—makes him feel peculiar about being outgoing, as if flawed in comparison. “Are you from here?”

The man shakes his head. “London. A two-week holiday.”

“Ah, that’s nice. Just the four of you . . . ?”

A bit of light leaves the green eyes. “Yes. Divorce, not death. No need for apology or sympathy. I’m happy to be single. Flirtation is unnecessary.”

Antonio stares, taken aback. “I wasn’t flirting.”

The Englishman shrugs. “Just a preventative measure.”

Antonio wonders how many interactions have been soured by this man’s brand of proactivity. “I was going to ask about your kids. I wish I had the control you do.”

An automatic fondness softens his face at the mention of his brood. “It wasn’t easily earned.”

How he wishes he could have that simple love for Lovino, unmarred by the boy’s constant antagonization. “Do you have any advice?”

The Englishman looks to the children again. “That’s your son?”

“I guess so.”

Thick eyebrows furrow. “How old are you?”

“Twenty-five.” _Hard to believe._

“And your son?”

“Eight.”

The Englishman frowns lightly as he works out the arithmetic of Antonio’s life, then says, “That must have been very difficult, raising him while still growing up yourself. You should be proud of yourself, for making it through.”

“Making it through?” Antonio can’t help but laugh at how ludicrous that sounds. “I feel like I’m only halfway.”

A knowing smile brightens the other man’s pale face. “Take it from someone with an external view. You’ve gotten through the roughest part. I presume he doesn’t wake you up at all hours anymore? He can be left alone without breaking his own neck?”

Antonio nods. “That’s true.” Thank God for the internet and the Belgian nanny he hired to help with the baby. She moved back home when Lovino was four, and he rejected her replacement so violently that Antonio didn’t bother searching for another. “But I think I’ve traded that battle for a worse one.”

Before the Englishman can ask what that means, Lovino provides demonstration. The children have been involved in a debate, and Lovino’s voice raises above it all: “These are my bars and I won’t move because you’re all stupid babies!”

The curly-haired boy comes running, violet eyes wide with distress. “Daddy, he called us stupid babies.”

“So I heard.” The father stands, taking his son’s hand. “Let’s sort this out, shall we?” He begins to walk away, then pauses to glance at Antonio. “Are you not coming?”

Antonio follows quickly, sheepish. He doesn’t think his presence will be helpful, but he’s not about to argue with this Brit. A tiny part of him is tempted to take the older man’s free hand, but he snuffs it.

Alfred and Lovino are puffing themselves up for a proper verbal brawl, but the Englishman’s calm yet firm voice breaks the tension. “What’s the issue here?”

“He won’t let us on the monkey bars,” says the curly-haired boy.

“And he’s nasty,” adds the smallest one.

“He called us stupid babies!” confirms Alfred.

“Alright.” Their father tips his head back to regard Lovino. “What’s your side of the story?”

Lovino glares at him. “These are my bars.”

“No, they actually don’t belong to anyone. This is a public park,” the Englishman calmly explains. “Anyone can play on them.”

If looks could kill. “ _I’m_ playing on them!”

“Are you having fun?”

That one stumps him for a second. “No.”

“Maybe you will if you let my boys play with you. Have they introduced themselves?”

“I don’t care about their names.” Lovino crosses his arms over his chest. “They’re all stupid. And so are you. You talk stupid and your hat is stupid and I bet their names are all Stupid Junior because your name is Stupid.”

Just the slightest arch of an eyebrow. “My name is Arthur. This is Alfred—”

“Stupid.”

“Matthew—”

“Stupid!”

“And Peter.”

“Shut up! Go away! I said you were stupid!”

Arthur shrugs, voice crisp but relaxed. “I’ve been called worse. But let’s not change the subject. I’m afraid you’re going to have to share the monkey bars.”

“No, I don’t. I don’t have to do anything.”

“I suppose not, but you do if you want people to like you.”

“Nobody likes me.” Lovino turns his back on them all, hunched over like a vulture on his perch.

“Well, would you like to be called stupid?”

“No!”

“Would you like the person who called you stupid?”

“. . . No.”

“So it seems to me,” Arthur reasons, “that people would like you if you found something nicer to call them. Would you play with him if he apologized, boys?”

“Yes,” Matthew replies immediately, and Alfred and Peter agree, albeit with less enthusiasm.

Lovino turns halfway around, a guarded look of surprise on his face. “You don’t not like me?”

“Double negatives notwithstanding,” Arthur says, “we all like you.”

“I like your shirt,” Alfred offers. “I like apples.”

“It’s a _tomato_ ,” Lovino snaps, then pauses and adds tentatively, “Thanks. I . . . I like your shoes.”

A big grin stretches across the boy’s face. “They’re _Transformers_ sneakers, and look!” He stomps his feet, and the bottoms of his shoes light up. “Magic!”

Lovino climbs down to peer at the sneakers, skeptical. “That’s not magic, that’s just batteries.”

“Well, they’re _magic_ batteries,” Alfred replies stoutly.

“Respectful tones,” Arthur says mildly. “Now. Can we try playing together?”

Three blond heads bob, and after hesitating, the brunette joins them.

“Good lads,” Arthur says, and his smile has even Antonio feeling warmed by the praise. “You have fun for a bit, and when you’re thirsty, come get some juice.”

Lovino jerks his chin up. “What kind of juice?”

“Apple.”

Lovino’s eyes narrow. “. . . Okay.” Then he turns to Alfred. “I bet I can beat you to the bottom of the slide because I’m older.”

“I’m seven and a half, you’re only half older.”

“I’m still faster!”

“I bet you’re not!”

Arthur, already on his way back to the bench, calls, “On your marks.”

Alfred cries, “Readysetgo!” and they dash for the slide with Matthew and Peter crowing behind them. Lovino, used to lazing around all day, is out of practise with sprinting, and Alfred slips down the slide while Lovino is still climbing the ladder. But, to Antonio’s astonishment, Lovino slides down after him and says, “I let you win.”

“You were pretty fast,” Matthew tells him.

“I let him win on purpose. To be nice.”

“Let’s see who’s best at climbing up the slide.”

“Okay.”

“Okay.”

Antonio lingers a moment more, to watch their comical upward clambers followed by the inevitable sliding back down again, before he returns and sits on the same bench as Arthur. “How did you do that?”

Arthur checks his watch. “Do what?”

“Get Lovino to change his mind. And to actually be nice.” _What I’ve been trying to do for eight years._

“I listened and reasoned with him. Not rocket science.”

“But—if I tried to do that, he would yell over me or shut himself in his room.”

“If he’s yelling, you haven’t listened enough.”

 _I’ve done nothing but listen, and all I hear is that he hates me._ Antonio slumps against the bench, helpless. If only that stupid seventeen-year-old hadn’t climbed into bed with any girl who let him. If only he’d bothered to ask, rather than assume _she’s probably on the pill._ If only she’d been a little older, a little stronger. If only she hadn’t bled her life away on that hospital bed, while Lovino gave the first in a long career of screams.

Arthur regards him kindly. “I’ve been at the end of my rope before. And I know how frustrating it is to hear someone say I know how you feel, so forgive me for that.” He nods to the children, playing hopscotch now. “That boy thinks you don’t love him. Is that true?”

“No.” Antonio heaves a sigh. “Of course I love him. But he just . . . he’s such a . . .” He throws up his hand. “Sometimes he drives me crazy.”

“He’s your son. That’s his job.” Arthur offers him a juicebox. “Children are small. Problems are huge, from their perspective. You have to see them that way, too, or they’ll think you’re ignoring them.” He smirks faintly. “There’s your parenting advice. That’ll be five quid.”

Antonio smiles weakly around the straw. “No quids here, Señor.”

“I know, what a bother. You’ll just have to take it for free, I suppose.”

This gives life to his smile. “ _Gracias._ ”

When the boys come trotting over for their promised juice, Arthur tells them, “Have one last play with Lovino, then we have to be heading back to our hotel.”

Alfred, Peter, and—to Antonio’s surprise—Lovino all whine in protest, but Arthur just says, “Go on, let’s see which of you can run all around the playground and back the fastest.”

Alfred and Lovino crouch down like professional runners, their brows lowered, lips pressed flat in determination. Matthew sits beside Arthur to obediently sip his juice, lightly tapping the toes of his shoes together. Arthur lifts Peter up onto his lap and says, “Get ready. Get set. And . . . Go!”

Both boys take off, arms swinging, Alfred’s shoes flashing red. They keep pace for the first stretch, but Alfred cuts the corner sharper and pulls ahead.

“Go, Al!” cries Matthew.

“Run run run!” adds Peter, bouncing on Arthur’s leg in his excitement.

Arthur leans slightly toward Antonio. “Cheer Lovino on,” he says in an undertone.

“But—” He’s an adult. He’d be shouting in public. Lovino has never cheered him on.

“No buts,” Arthur says briskly, then smiles. “Give, even when you get nothing back for it. That’s the best parenting advice I can give you.”

“Al’s winning!”

Antonio looks to the racers. Alfred is taking the last corner; Lovino is lagging a few paces behind. He’s not even breathing hard, but he has that look in his eyes. The angry defeat. Things have stopped going his way, so he sees no point in trying. For the first time, Antonio truly attempts to see it Lovino’s way. All fire, no light. The world has taken his mother, his nanny, a normal life—and replaced it with Antonio, living without ever needing to earn anything, existing as a shadow in someone else’s dream. So selfish, so unfair, for both of them. _You’ll never have to work, because of me,_ Antonio thinks. _That’s what I’ve done for you. You can do whatever you want. And you’ve never thanked me._

But Lovino is the son, the child.

_That isn’t his job._

Antonio slowly brings his hands to his cup and mouth and shouts in Italian, _“Go, Lovino! You can do it! I believe in you!”_

Lovino perks up like a flower at dawn. He falters a little in his stride, then shoots down the final stretch. He gains, gains, and passes Alfred.

 _“Yes! You can do it!”_ Antonio’s on his feet, grinning, more ecstatic than he’s been since he made his first single. Lovino catapults himself at his father, who catches him before he can crash. Antonio lifts Lovino up into a warm, warm hug, an embrace of two suns. Antonio can’t hold back laughter, an overflowing of his delight, and Lovino is shaking too—but when he pulls back, he sees his son’s face is red and wet with tears.

Antonio gives the boy’s forehead a gentle kiss. “ _Te quiero_ , Lovino.”

Neither of them can remember the last time either said this. But that’s alright. This is it, here. All new beginnings have to start somewhere.

“I almost won, it was really close, wasn’t it, Daddy?”

Antonio turns to see Arthur shouldering his bag and nodding to Alfred. “It was _very_ close. You were running so fast, if you’d tripped you would have hit terminal velocity.”

Alfred blinks. “What’s that?”

Arthur purses his lips in deep consideration of how best to explain mortality and gravitational science to a seven-year-old.

Alfred, Matthew, and Peter all gain a matching look of wisdom. Alfred says, “Magic?”

Arthur chuckles. “Precisely.” He turns his smile on Antonio. “Say goodbye to Lovino and . . .” His face clears, then turns faintly pink in embarrassment. “I beg your pardon, but I’ve just realized I don’t know your name.”

“Antonio Fernández Carriedo.”

Arthur turns his head for a sidelong look, eyes narrowed. “You wouldn’t be the popular singer—”

“Once-popular,” Antonio amends. Lovino has started to squirm, so he lets him down to bid the blond trio farewell. “I’m surprised you know who I am. No offense, but you don’t seem like the type.”

“Oh, I’m not.” Arthur’s lips curl in amusement as he puts on a professional, serious tone: “ _Toni Carriedo is little more than a one-man boy band fill-in, with the same tired lyrics about seeing beauty across the dance floor and the oh-so-novel idea that love is, in fact, complicated. His vocals are not unpleasant enough to warrant changing the radio station, but the vapid writing and samey guitar turns listening to a full album into a chore.”_

Antonio can barely believe his ears. “You’re—Arthur _Kirkland_? The journalist who wrote my first bad review?” (And made him cry for an hour straight, back in the day, but some things don’t need to be mentioned.)

Arthur shrugs, only a bit abashed. “What can I say. I prefer rock.” He takes his wallet from his bag and extends a business card to Antonio. “Here. Keep in touch, yeah?”

Antonio accepts the card with a rueful smile. “I’m not in the business anymore. I have more important things in my life.” At last, that statement feels true. He never thought he would be so proud of another person simply for existing, but—as Lovino gives Matthew an awkward hug—he does. _My son._ This afternoon won’t cure every problem—not even close—but it happened, and that’s a blessing in itself.

“I wasn’t thinking in the business sense,” Arthur tells him. “More for pleasure.”

Is that a vaguely flirtatious arch to his bushy eyebrow, or is Antonio just a lonely, horny ex-popstar? Both will turn out to be true, but, for now, Englishman and Spaniard will go their separate ways. As Arthur drives back to the hotel, the Kirkland children fall into the deep sleep only the summer sun can bring. As Antonio crosses the street, Lovino takes his hand, wrapping his little fingers around three of Antonio’s. Both fathers have the same smile on their faces, but when Antonio looks down at Lovino, he sees something incredible. Not a smile, but something better, in its way. His eyes, an hour ago like resentful coals, are now sparkling the most beautiful green Antonio has ever seen. Brighter than Arthur’s, brighter than Antonio’s, brighter even than Lovino’s mother as she among thousands screamed her love for Antonio’s love for love itself.

At long last, the darkness—if only for a while—gives way to light.

 

_The End._


End file.
